The empty stares of strangers make me feel alive; the grins, half-cocked, waiting for me to say a word to the British girls and boys whose eyes lock with mine—tell me I’m all things beautiful, all things perfect, all things human. I walk down Queen’s Lane, eyes venerate me, following my every step. These stares, a million words for a boy who feels for nothing but the cool breeze of Lake Michigan, will peel away like a grapefruit. I will be left naked, but that feeling will linger.
